


collide

by pensee



Category: Basic Instinct (Movies), Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: AU, Adam being disorganized and flustered, Background gambling etc, Banter, Celebrity interviewee Le Chiffre, Gen, Hannibal Extended Universe, Hannibal rare pair, Le Chiffre being Le Chiffre, Le Chiffre still does illegal things, M/M, Meet-Cute, ish, journalist Adam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 03:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20575535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee
Summary: Adam normally does his research on interviewees, but this one has managed to slip by him. Hanging by a thread at a job he detests, he decides that being assigned to interview a (probably dreadfully boring) celebrity of Albanian origin isn’t exactly his cup of tea.That is, of course, until he changes his mind.





	collide

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this came from pictures of Mads in Cannes from a few years ago, looking like a normal (albeit exceptionally gorgeous) guy just standing around with his dry cleaning or whatever. You’d never know he was a celebrity...and thus this mistaken identity-ish thing was born.

“Shit shit shit,” Adam curses at himself, wondering at how the universe had managed to fuck him over royally, just one more fucking time.

Set an alarm, ordered a wake up call from the hotel, even logged a reminder on his mobile, and all three had somehow malfunctioned or not come through, and now he was standing here with his arse in the wind trying to make up for lost time, pulling on trousers and boots whilst a bag of half-eaten crisps dangled from his mouth (mmm, what a nutritious breakfast, you ill-prepared wanker).

Patting down his pockets for his room key, he makes sure that he has his tablet, wallet, and a number for the closest taxi service, if the line in front of the hotel lobby somehow decides to fuck him over as well.

Late—exceedingly so—to what his daft supervisor called his “last assignment”, if he wouldn’t “stop pretending like he was more than a washed-up excuse for an ‘investigative journalist’ and write the fucking celebrity columns like a good little soldier”, Adam was not holding out much hope he wouldn’t be sacked the moment he submitted his copy through the magazine’s online portal. But still, odder things had happened.

Yeah, like three bloody alarms malfunctioning at the same time, he thinks, tossing the unappetizing crisps away as he barrels toward the taxi currently pulled up at the kerb.

“Pardon,” a voice says, low and foreign, and Adam blinks. Oops, apparently this car was already taken.

Normally, he wouldn’t be opposed to stealing someone else’s ride if he needed to get somewhere, but the tone from this stranger—bloody hell, was he handsome, and half-blind, it seemed, a long scar running from browbone to cheek—was almost closer to _threatening_ than polite.

“Christ,” Adam mutters. “Erm, sorry. Your taxi, sure.”

The man whose place he’d inadvertently swiped studies him for a moment, smirk tilting the corners of his lips up as he sees Adam’s askew scarf and windblown hair.

“No,” he says. “You seem as if you need it more than I do.”

The cabbie, twisting around in his seat and gesturing impatiently, shouts something in a language Adam cannot identify, placated only by a crisp note that this scarred stranger hands him.

Unable to look away from the denomination, Adam’s eyes widen.

“Thanks,” he says hurriedly, giving directions to the gastropub where his boss and his interviewee’s rep had arranged their meet, taxi pulling away with a squeal of tyres on cement.

Only a handful of seconds later does Adam realize that the suit his unintended savior was wearing was both perfect fodder for the society and fashion pages the magazine ran, as it was worth more than rent in London’s most exclusive neighborhoods.

He’d probably be a more interesting interview than whatever I’m away to at the moment, he thinks, scanning through the description of his interviewee by e-mail.

Mid-forties, actor-philanthropist, dabbles in fine art collecting on the side (gag). Most important feature: opening a gallery for under-privileged artists in his home country of Albania, with submissions from locals that were going to be backed by international talent.

Snore, Adam thought, leaning his head heavily against the back of the seat.

“Mr. Towers,” the scarred stranger says, somehow here for their meeting and already nursing a drink despite the fact that they left the hotel at the exact same fucking time.

“Oh, what the bloody—You know, you should identify yourself, next time! I nearly had a heart attack thinking my boss was going to sack me as soon as some prissy rich idiot ran to him and tattled about how late I was to this interview.”

Adam hates how red he turns whenever he is angry, but he can’t help it now, crimson up to the ears at the look of amusement on his interviewee’s features.

“What makes you so sure I won’t still tattle?”

“Because that would mean admitting you were an arsehole as well…” Adam huffs, peering at his mobile notes. “Le Chiffre? One name, huh, a tad pretentious if you ask me, but—.”

“It was a suggestion from my publicist.”

“You actually listen to what those people tell you?”

“My name is Jean,” his interviewee says easily, concluding the issue.

Mouth downturned into a frown, Adam sighs. “Alright, Jean,” he says. “You win. Tell me, oh Lord…” more rummaging around in his pockets for his tablet stylist. “Tell me what it is about whatever it is you’ve been doing lately.”

“A broad category, _Adam_.”

Adam breathes in through his nose to stop the biting comment that wants to fly out of his mouth.

“Yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t do my homework on your Christian name like you evidently did on mine. Didn’t even get a bloody picture of you in my notes, and before you ask, I’ve never seen any of your films, so don’t bother trying to self-promote in the hopes I’ll recognize you. But maybe I’ll start with asking why you were slumming about a shitty three-star hotel when you can obviously afford—what is that, Valentino?—much better.”

Le Chiffre—Jean, bloody ridiculous, nondescript name—smirks.

“I was born into poverty,” he says. “Sometimes, my childhood tugs at me. Excess in all things does not make a happy life, after all.”

Adam scoffs. “No, if you believed any of that you would be living in that small village in…hm, Albania, was it? Not wearing a suit worth more than I make in a year.”

Le Chiffre’s eyelid twitches, just barely. “Eight months,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Eight months. Extrapolating from the going rate on staff copy editors at magazines like yours, plus whatever freelance work you likely do to fill in the gaps left by being accustomed to a certain lifestyle a bit more than you can really afford, I would say I’m wearing something worth about eight months of your salary, give or take for week-to-week inflation.”

“A maths genius now, too? Did they forget to add that to the dossier? I honestly thought the name was meant to...emphasize your net worth.”

The smirk returns. “Very good, Adam. Now would you let me buy you that drink?”

Not wasting the opportunity to be rude—this man just inspires something in him—Adam raises a brow, stylist flying across his tablet screen.

“It’s barely the middle of the day.”

“I have certain vices,” Le Chiffre shrugs, taking a modest sip from his heavy glass tumbler.

“You still didn’t answer my question about why you were lurking around a shoddy business-class hotel rather than classier accommodations.”

“There are certain things I must attend to that I am unfortunately unable to choose the venue for.”

Adam scoffs. “You, a multi-millionaire or billionaire or whatever you are can’t get your business partner to change hotels with a snap of your fingers? Hardly makes for an interesting story, Le Chiffre.”

“I agree,” Le Chiffre says, surprising the hell out of Adam. “But one must keep playing the game. Following the rules is what keeps you alive in this business, no matter how much anyone pretends different.”

There is a gravity to his voice that actually manages to unnerve Adam, and the memory of the last time he poked his nose where it didn’t belong begins to creep up, leaving a cold feeling along the back of his neck.

_Listen to your gut. Just get the story, and go. Write another three dozen copies for your stupid trash magazine, and go_, is what common sense tells him, sitting in a bar across from a man whose smiles are both chilling and, from what Adam can tell, entirely fake.

This is not the self-absorbed, semi-cultured actor he was expecting, and in spite of himself, he feels something a bit more than excitement (God forbid, maybe even attraction) building as he pauses in his writing and drops the stylist to the table with a clatter of plastic.

Reaching across the table, hand slipping against the cuff of Le Chiffre’s jacket, he hopes he isn’t misreading whatever signals the other man is almost sending him, practically demanding to buy him a drink although Adam had basically barged in and shit all over his life story.

Well, men always liked to feel like they had outsmarted you, that you couldn’t resist them, that they’d won you over. Though Le Chiffre is smart enough to see this as a conceded apology, bloody hell will Adam ever admit to it or call it as such. Still, it is nice to see the subtle twinkle in the man’s one good eye as Adam teasingly runs a finger over the back of his hand.

Who’s playing whom? Adam thinks, but decides it doesn’t matter. This round has turned out unexpectedly fun, and he needs a bit of fun to counteract every shitty thing that’s happened in his life lately. He can’t wait to see what comes next.

“I don’t know, Jean,” he says, chin perched on his hand. “Life’s risky all around, but I disagree. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of lovely stories to tell me that are a little more interesting than this.”

“In what way?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” Adam says, chancing a small smile. “But for now, how about you get me that drink?”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m hoping to make this into a rare pair collection, so if you want to see anyone in particular please mention it in the comments. :)


End file.
